


By Order of the Peaky Fucking Blinders

by jenipottinger



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12037350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenipottinger/pseuds/jenipottinger
Summary: A one-shot wherein John Shelby meets you, greets you, and makes you his (for the night).





	By Order of the Peaky Fucking Blinders

_Birmingham, 1924_

“Will you stop fussing with that thing?” Aunt Louisa chastises. She slaps your hand away from the white plumage attached to your headband. “Just look at that. You’re going to pluck that feather clean before the night’s even started.”

Aunt Louisa clucks her tongue. You place both hands between your legs while she makes you up.

She shadows your eyelids with a small, dry brush that feels like sandpaper against your skin.

“A shilling and five just wasted,” she goes on. She runs a smooth black pencil across the crease of your closed eyes. 

“Why’d you even buy the silly thing if you can’t afford it?” you remark.

Aunt Louisa strikes you sharply on the exposed flesh above your knee.

“Watch that tongue, girl.”

She tilts your chin upwards in her hand, and you open your eyes to glare at the mole on her lower chin.

She begins to coat your lashes in mascara. “Especially at this party. Else the Peaky Blinders will cut it out for you.”

“ _Peaky Blinders_?” you laugh. 

Another smack against the thigh. 

“You’ll need more sense than that if you’re to be out in Birmingham society,” She moves across the cramped bedroom to grab a scarlet red lippy from _your_ luggage. “The Peaky Blinders are no laughing matter. They run just about everything around here. And everyone.”

“A gang?” You start.

Aunt Louisa holds your chin still in one hand, the lipstick poised in her other like a knife.

“What do you know of gangs?” Aunt Louisa scoffs. She spreads the creamy scarlet across your lips. “Growing up in _Bristol_ with a _fancy_ home and a _maid_ and _stables_ , you think you know anything about how the real world works? You think your father sent you here because he thought you’d enjoy a nice _vacation_ with Aunt Louisa?”

She clenches your chin between the pads of her thumb and fingers. Her upper lip curls into a snarl, and you smell her dinner of rum and sausages.

“Wrong. Wrong you are.” Aunt Louisa grabs a black tin of bright rouge and brushes it into the apples of your cheeks. Ignoring your wince, she goes on, “The Peaky Blinders are gods and demons to us. To you, now, too. So go there with your flirty eyes, and your mouth all painted up, and you give any man called Shelby something to smile about. You can make a shilling and five in an hour, at least.”

You gape at her.

“Aunt Louisa—”

“My brother sent you away for your whoring and boozing. You suppose I’d take a sinner under my roof just because?” She yanks you up by the arms and turns you to the full length mirror.

The dirty glass reveals as pretty a picture as anyone could’ve dreamed.

Finger waves curl your soft, dark bob. Even the dim light of Aunt Louisa’s bedroom dances against its curves. The snow white feather you’d been swatted at for disturbing adorns a silver band that circles round your head. Thin black straps trail down to the straight cut top of a slinky black dress, embellished with a strip of silver at the waistline. The fringe at the hemline only reaches a third of the way down your thighs, and right where the dress ends, your thin, black stockings begin.

Before you can glance away from the mirror, Aunt Louisa's figure reappears in the reflection to spritz you four times with your own perfume.

“Oi!” You snap. “That cost me more than this bloody headband.”

“Then make back the money tonight.” Aunt Louisa replaces the bottle. “Your cousins need school shoes.”

***

As you’re escorted into the magnificence of a home said to belong to one Thomas Shelby, you wonder what your father would think of your predicament. You’d never asked to stay with rotten, Aunt Louisa. Her small house, her six children, the drunkard she called husband—none of it had been agreed upon. But your father had decided that an unwed daughter caught making love with a stablehand was an embarrassment he could not withstand. And now, thanks to his embarrassment, you would become the very whore he feared you already were. 

What was it like to have sex for money? To flirt with men you had no passion for? You had never done any of those things, and yet you were expected to provide for Aunt Louisa and her children. You’d seen the men of Birmingham, with their flat caps and strange haircuts, moustaches all but soaked in whiskey. There was no way you’d be able to entertain one of them for more than ten minutes without getting sick on yourself.

"What did I tell you?" A girl your age who lives down the road from Aunt Louis laughs. The two of you follow a maid through the house. “Thomas Shelby lives like a bloody King!"

“Lottie, do you know them? The Shelbys?” You run your fingers along the feather of your headband.

“Not as well as I’d like to,” Lottie giggles, wiggling her shoulders with each word.

You laugh.

The maid stops at the end of the hall, and opens a set of double doors. 

When you step inside, every one of your senses gets run over at once. The decadence of the drawing room itself would take you days to drink in. The wood panelling, electric lamps, and few candlelit sconces soften the room. A large portrait of a beautiful man and a lovely woman sits over the fireplace. Something in his eyes makes you want to cry. 

The scent of whiskey overpowers the faint remnants of the perfume you’d been doused in. Your eardrums clang with the hot, jazz trumpeting into the room from the expensive phonograph on the far side, nearest to the drawn windows. And all around, girls your age and older—and a few younger—wear next to nothing and touch men in unspeakable places. 

“What is this place?” You whisper in disgust. 

Lottie slips off her shoes instantly. “It’s the _twenties_ , “She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a dud.” 

As she disappears into the insanity, you stand on your own in front of the doors unaware of how to proceed. You cross your arms over your chest, avoid looking at anything—or anyone. If this was what your father thought you’d been up to, you now understood his decision to send you away. 

Suddenly, the doors burst open and he collides with you. 

“Fucking hell,” another voice snarls. 

“You might want to find a better fucking place to stand, Love,” he says without looking at you, mouth wrapped around a cigar. 

He and the two others continue forward. 

Almost as an afterthought, he cranes his neck to gives you a once over. The shadow from his cap hides everything but the smirk that spreads across the lower half of his face. 

You watch the room come to attention at their arrival. The three men in their stylish suits and flat caps stand in the centre of the room as if the world belongs to them. You recognize the dark-haired man from the portrait, and assume him to be Thomas Shelby. The tar blackness of his suit, the sunken in cheeks, that haunted gaze; his entire being leaves you cold. There was something sorrowful in him, even as he stood with his hands pushed into his pockets like time would stop for him if he told it to. He was in charge; it only took one look at him to be certain of that. 

The freckled one with the moustache attempted to mimic Thomas Shelby’s demeanour in his pale, brown tweed. His actions, however, came off too agitated, too pressed. You look at him and think of the dogs you’d seen in London on holiday; the ones foaming at the mouths in the alleyways that the men in the city would put down out of mercy. 

Then, the last one, this one in navy. He didn’t behave like Thomas or the other man, he didn’t try. it was true, his hands were shoved into his pockets like theirs, but it looked to be out of comfort, not deliberation or imitation. He keeps his gaze straight down at the ground, his head so low you can’t make out a feature on his alabaster flesh. 

“Alright, everyone,” Thomas Shelby calls to the room, and all noise ceases. He points twice towards the table littered with decanters and tumblers. “Now, we’ve got enough drink here to drown all of England. And I expect every fucking drop of it finished by sunrise. By order of the Peaky Blinders.” 

“That’s fucking right!” The freckly one with the moustache shouts. 

The third one looks back towards you, tugs out his cigar, and bellows, “By order of the fucking Peaky Blinders.” 

The cheers of agreement come quickly, and you pray they are loud enough to drown out the thumping of your heart. 

Glasses clatter together at their command, and everyone tops off drinks that weren't in need of refreshment. 

Hoping it doesn’t look like a retreat, you walk to the far side of the room where the phonograph sits. Here, you attempt to steady yourself. You had never been in a room like this, filled with people like this. Fear tickles the back of your throat and makes you want to turn and run, but something else makes you stay. You want to blame it on Aunt Louisa and her demands of you. However, if you were being completely honest, it was something else. 

“And you are?” he demands. 

You whip around to face the man and his cigar. He holds two glasses filled to the top with whiskey. 

“Beg your pardon?” you reply. 

“We’re not so friendly to outsiders,” he explains, shoving a glass into your hands. “But you’ve just won my approval.” 

“Well then I must thank you, sir,” you smile. 

“You must,” he agrees, removing the cigar and having a drink. “I know about every girl in Birmingham, and I don’t know you.” 

“And who are you to know so many women?” your voice trickles with interest. You take a dainty sip of your whiskey. 

“John Shelby,” his voice betrays an unparalleled amount of pride. You doubted even Kings said their name or title with as much weight. He has a slow drink, eyes on yours the whole while. When he steps towards you, you step back. “You know what that means?” 

“No.” You feel goosebumps forming underneath your skin. 

“It means I’m in charge of you and any fucking other thing I want to be in charge of.” 

His words carry an almost clinical sort of matter-of-factness. It would have infuriated you, if not for that bit of pride that coloured the ending. You could tell this was not a man who believed men ruled the world around them as a God given right. No, this was a man who believed himself to be exceptional—himself and his relations. 

“I’m told you run Birmingham,” you watch him put his cigar back into his mouth, and then his hand back into his pocket. 

“Something like,” he responds. He puffs on his cigar and tilts his head back to look down his nose at you. “See, my brothers and I own this whole fucking town. And everyone in it.” 

“And what if I belong to someone else, Mr. Shelby?” You wonder. 

“Then you shouldn’t have come here,” John removes his cigar, and smiles. 

When he smiles, the smooth plane of his face dimples in the cheeks and brightens in the eyes like first light. He looks just like a boy; the same merriment in his gaze as a child on Christmas morning, the same easiness of one mucking about in a schoolyard with his mates. The purity of that beam stands out, so unlike the haggard looks on the faces of every other man in the room. You remain transfixed until he takes one measured step towards you. 

You back up and bump into the table with the phonograph on it. Some whiskey sloshes over the rim of the tumbler, and spills along your fingers. 

“Wasting good whiskey is a capital offence in Birmingham, Love,” He takes your hand and runs his tongue in between your fingers and down to the ends of your red, painted nails. Your heart thumps in your chest. When he looks back to you, he smirks a little. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you out of trouble.” 

“I sincerely doubt that,” you murmur to his amusement. 

His eyes flicker down your body and trail back up. He glances at your nearly full glass. 

“You heard my brother, right? There’s not to be a full fucking glass left in this house. So drink.” 

Without meaning to, you gulp down a third. You pull a face that makes John laugh. 

“Do you want to...play cards?” You ask politely, clearing your throat. 

“No,” there’s no humour in his gaze now. 

“O-oh,” you stammer. 

In silence, you look back at the party you’d almost forgotten was going on behind him. Men had their shirts unbuttoned and their trousers undone. Girls were in their knickers laying all over them, pressing kisses to their hairy chests. You bring your glass to your lips in something close to fascination. 

“Would you rather I fucked you upstairs or down here?” He asks. 

“What?” you laugh nervously, and swallow another gulp of whiskey. 

You cross an arm over your chest and verify that no one is looking in your direction. You knew it was foolish to crave modesty at a party like this one, but it was simply how you were bred. Even the way those other men and women were carrying on couldn’t stop you from trying to afford a respectable amount of distance between you and the man presently caging you in with his arms. 

“A girl dressed like you’re fucking dressed, at a party like this one,” John presses against you, and you gasp. He drains his glass of whiskey. “There’s only one reason a lady wears her dress so short you can see her knickers….” 

His hand crawls up your skirt and cups your bottom. As you push it away, he snatches your hand in his and interlaces your fingers. 

“I’ll beg your pardon, Mr. Shelby,” you snap. You untwist your interlocked fingers. “But I’m only dressed like a whore tonight because it’s what my Aunt Louisa thinks I am. Thinks all these girls are, as well, I suppose.” 

“So you’re not a whore, eh?” John teases. He puts the cigar back in his mouth and puffs. You hold your breath as his hand moves below his waist, feel your body humming in response. He reaches into his pants and pulls out a wad of pound notes as big as your fist. “What about now?” 

Your mouth drops open before you can stop it. You shut it again immediately and give him your most bored expression. 

He tilts his head back and laughs, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his silent guffaws. You are mesmerized by the sunshine and shadows that live within him, the way he moves through boyhood and manhood with a change of his expression. When John looks at you again, you regret untangling your hand from his. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you, Love.” 

“How much?” You can’t help but asking. 

“Not a whore, you fucking said,” John pushes against you. A gasp escapes from your lips. He grins, triumphantly. “But you know how to moan like one.” 

“I’m not a whore,” you say decisively. You finish your whiskey in one gulp. You place a delicate hand on his shoulder for support, praying you don’t keel over and wretch. A moment passes and you run your fingers over his lapels. “But I have it on good authority that everyone in Birmingham is a whore for the Peaky Blinders.” 

“Let’s find out,” John decides. 

*** 

In a parlour upstairs that looks much like a fainting room, John places a bottle of whiskey on the table next to the chaise longue. The small room contains a few chairs, a bookshelf, a wide window, and not much else. By the entrance sits an unlit fireplace with horses detailed into the mantel. 

The silence between you two seems doubled by the echoes of nothingness outside of the room. It becomes easy to imagine you are the only two in the world, that the partygoers in the drawing room had already gone home for the night and wouldn’t be there to receive you when you returned. If you returned. 

And if that were the case, decorum need not concern you. 

“This is exquisite,” You glance around courteously, taking in the fine touches. The luxury they lived in—in Birmingham—seemed impossible to comprehend, especially next to Aunt Louisa’s poverty. 

“Have another one,” John nods towards the bottle of whiskey. 

You swig from the bottle and notice that the flavour no longer burns the back of your throat. The warmth of the liquor starts to excite your nerves and blur the edge of your vision like romance lighting. You take another gulp. 

You glance towards John. He sets down his hat on the mantel and unbuttons his jacket with steady hands. 

“Dress on, knickers off,” John orders. 

You frown at him, and his presumption. You couldn't feign surprise at his complete lack of bedside manner, but you were surprised at the immediacy of his faux-pas. He might've offered you a compliment, attempted to loosen your garments with some flattery. Instead, he had given you an emotionless instruction. You supposed he must be used to the very thing you were inexperienced in; sex without passion. 

Before you can articulate your distaste, he removes his jacket and withdraws a gun from an inside pocket. 

Your eyes widen, and your body goes rigid. 

John looks from you to the gun, then back again. 

His eyes twinkle darkly. 

“You’ve never held a gun before, have you?” 

You don’t respond. 

“Ever had one pointed on you?” he starts to raise the gun. 

“Please, sir!” you exclaim, putting both hands out in front of your face. The beginnings of hysteria infect your voice. 

“Relax, Love,” he laughs, aiming the gun at the lamp beside the whiskey instead. “I could never harm anything half as pretty as you. And you can call me John, if you like.” 

“Do you usually pull weapons on women you care to bed, John Shelby?” you toss at him. 

“Only the _really_ naughty ones,” he quips with that boyish smirk of his. 

You brush past him to the open door, then whip around to face him with crossed arms. 

“I don’t care for guns,” you sniff. “Or men who get a laugh out of scaring women.” 

He walks towards you with the gun clutched in his right hand. He grabs your chin with his left, and tilts your face up to his. 

“But you’re not scared,” he tells you, running the length of the gun along your inner thigh. “You’re not scared, are you?” 

You bite your lip to keep yourself from making a sound as the cold metal glides up your flesh and past the lace trim of your tap pants. 

He pushes you against the wall and smirks. That shade of devilment in his otherwise saintly features thrills you all over again. The gun slowly slides up the left leg of your knickers and nudges against you ever so slightly. You press your hands against the wall so hard you wonder if your fingertips will bruise. He moves the gun back and forth underneath you, and you push your hips forward. Your mouth parts in an unanticipated sigh. 

“See,” he brushes his knuckles against your cheek. He moves his thumb down the line of your jaw and rests it at the centre of your bottom lip. “There’s a difference between scared and excited.” 

He dips his thumb past your lips, and you suck at the tip of his finger. He hums in approval, with his eyes locked on yours. John presses the barrel hard against you, and your whole body shudders. 

“So you do like guns, after all,” He pulls the weapon out from under your dress with a cheeky grin. 

“I like yours,” you correct. 

John moves his hand down the column of your throat and stops at the base. He places the gun on the mantel next to you, grips your hip, and tightens his hold on your neck. 

You breathe out. 

After a moment, his hands relax, and he moves both to frame your face. Slowly, he lowers his lips to yours. 

His gentle mouth presses against yours so delicately that you might wonder if you were even being kissed at all, if not for the goosebumps that rise above your skin wherever his lips rest. You lick the seam of his mouth, and tug at his bottom lip. Cajoled by your frenzy, he pushes his tongue into your mouth and runs it along yours. His mouth tastes of whiskey and tobacco, and a sort of need you'd only ever imagined. 

You hook your hands into the pockets of his vest, pull him closer, and slide your palms up his chest. John grunts against your mouth, and moves both hands down to your hips. He lifts one of your legs and clutches it against his own hip so he can stroke your nylon-clad thigh possessively. 

You feel his semi-stiffness pressed against you. The length of him startles you, makes your heart jump out of your chest and up your throat into his kiss. You moan his name when he lowers his head to nip at your collarbone. 

“That sounds bloody brilliant coming off your tongue,” his voice grazes against your eardrums and straight into your brain. You would never forget the sound of his voice, the bass of it, the rugged shape of the words born in the hollow of his throat. 

He slips his hands up your skirt and tugs your tap pants and underwear down himself. They slide down your smooth thighs at breakneck speed, and pool around the black ankle straps of your shoes. 

You gaze at the pile of silk at your feet, and John pushes his hands up the back of your dress to tug your brassiere straps off your shoulders. He pulls your arms through, then slips one hand around your front again, and tugs the bra down to your waist. You watch his roaming hands ripple underneath he fabric of your dress, and gasp when he cups your ribs with his palms and slips the length of his thumbs underneath the curves of your breasts. He tightens his grip, pushes you harder against the wall, and lifts his hands to palm your breasts and flick his thumbs across your nipples. 

The moonlight spilling in from the window dances dangerously in his green-blue eyes and makes them look as clear and cool as the water surrounding the Greek islands. Your hands sit upon his shoulders, and as you start to move one to caress his face you feel his right hand slip down your stomach and cup you. Your leg muscles spasm, your whole body turns stiff as a board. You see that drunken absence playing in his eyes sharpen. He squeezes harshly, and you squeeze his shoulders back. He turns his head to the side and kisses one of your hands. 

“Let me guess, Love,” he starts, gently running a finger along your slit. He slows down near your entrance, and the second you tense up in anticipation moves right past. “You’ve come to Birmingham to be taken by a gangster, eh?” 

“What…no—” you wonder why he’s thought it appropriate to speak at a time like this. You might’ve asked him, if you could’ve thought of something cleverer to say than what had already come out of your mouth. 

“You rich bitches…from London, or…” John says through gritted teeth. He leans towards you with a mixture of disgust and hunger turning down the corners of his mouth. He lowers his head to your right breast and nibbles through the silk of your dress. You moan out his name. He trails back up your neck to the base of your earlobe, “Wherever you lot come from, you come to men like us for one thing. A good fuck.” 

You close your eyes and rock against his hand. All thoughts of propriety and discretion flew out the window the second he pressed that gun against you. You knew that by the end of the night, he would have you in any manner he saw fit. 

“Say it,” he demands. You hear teasing in his voice, despite the harshness of his tone. “Say what you want.” 

“A good fuck,” you reply. Your face grows hot when the words spill out of your own mouth. You circle your hips and groan out at the feel of his fingers against you. You try to ignore how wet you are, the scent of yourself wafting up from the callused surface of his fingers. You feel the knot of tension pulsing just below your stomach, anticipating a release you feared he would deny you. 

“From who?” he pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger. Your leg clamps tightly against his back. 

“John Shelby,” you whisper. 

“I can’t fucking hear you, can I?” he grabs your throat just under your chin and tightens his fist. 

“ **John Shelby**." 

“Peaky Blinder,” John adds, “And the best cock you’ll ever have.” 

He slips two fingers into you. Your legs tense and then melt, a long sigh flowing out of your mouth only to be caught by John’s lips on yours. He cradles your cheekbone with his thumb under your chin and begins to move his fingers in deeper. 

“Mhm,” you moan, the ball of tension in your stomach vibrating rhythmically to John’s motions. 

Suddenly, he stops. 

He drops your thigh and yanks his face away from yours. The line of confusion between his brows softens as he looks at you. His flushed face and warm eyes reveal everything you felt still stirring within you, reflected in another. 

“You’re not…?” He asks, looking at your waist. 

“No,” You answer before he can finish the thought. You step out of the undergarments still pooled at your feet, and firmly add, “But I’m not a whore, either.” 

“How many?” he snaps, and you try to convince yourself that you only imagine that note of jealousy in his voice out of self-gratification. 

“Two.” He looks at you skeptically and you curl your hands into fists. “Though it’s hardly your bloody business, just two.” 

“You’ve yourself a boy in the city,” John guesses. “But you’re not satisfied, then?” 

“He’s passed away,” you blurt out. You watch the mischief fade from John’s eyes, his smile falter. You don’t know why you tell him, but you do. “After the war, his mind was…it wasn’t right. He hung himself last summer.” 

A moment of silence passes between you two. John places his hands on your hips, and you rest yours on his forearms. 

“The second was…” you start, unaware of how to explain. “Just an ordinary man. He tended my horses. He’s not allowed back, now. And I suppose neither am I.But I loved him. Loved them both. I’ve only ever…it’s always been with men I love.” 

A tear trickles down your cheek. You cast your gaze at the ground, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. You couldn’t believe you’d gone from looking at him the way you had a moment ago to looking away. You couldn’t believe how much you still wanted him, despite what you’d shared. 

“I’m sorry,” you chuckle. John knuckles away the tear with the most tender of touches. The softness in his eyes breaks your heart. “I shouldn’t have…” 

He leans forward and kisses you again. This time he raises both your hands over your head and pins them against the wall. He moves to the spot below your ear and sucks at your skin. 

You squeeze his hands and tilt your head to one side, so that he may be permitted to travel the expanse of your neck with fewer restrictions. When he gets down to your cleavage, he brings your hands down with him. You run your fingers through his fine hair as his tongue dips beneath the bust of the dress. 

Without warning, he whips you around so that your cheek is pressed against the wall. You feel him pressed against your backside, the rise and fall of his breathing as he keeps you steady. 

Your heartbeat quickens. Your mouth goes so dry that even attempting to speak would be useless. 

“You’ve only ever been had by men you’ve loved,” John speaks into your ear, and you can feel the back of his hands against your bottom while he unbuttons his trousers. He pulls your hips back, towards him, and pushes up the back of your dress. He pushes two fingers into your folds and wraps his other arm around your waist for support. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be in love with me, too.” 

John pulls out his fingers and guides the full length of his cock into you. Your mouth opens on a silent gasp. The ecstasy of him filling you knocks the air out of your lungs. You arch your back to press against him more closely. With an inhale of breath, you grab onto the mantel with your right hand and the door’s threshold with your left. 

John takes your waist in his hands and begins to pull back out, just so your body can marvel at his size again as he stretches your walls. He thrusts back into you repeatedly, the pressure building in your core until you feel just about ready to release. You feel his hot breath against your neck as he curses and pants along with you. 

John spins you back round, and clutches your leg to him again. He eases himself back in and takes your mouth as you moan out his name. He swears against your lips, presses both hands to the wall behind you, and he grinds into you. You grab his shirt with shaking hands, move them upwards to skim the soft skin along his sharp jawline. You squeeze and pull his mouth back to yours. You tighten around him, circling your hips the whole while as you get closer and closer. With your mouth on his, you shudder and release a low moan. Your eyes roll back as you cling to the moment of pure indulgence for as long as possible. 

As you tremble, John speeds up. He covers your mouth with his again, and brings himself over the edge along with you. 

He slips out of you, beads of sweat decorating his brow line. 

You right yourself again; pull down your dress, fix the smudges of lipstick, reposition the headband and its—now drooping—feather. You look at your heap of undergarments and wonder if there’s even use to putting them back on until your flesh cools and dries. 

Holding his hat in his hand, John kisses the corner of your mouth. You smile and complete the kiss, wrapping both your arms around his neck and nuzzling his throat. You trail your hand down his shoulder to find his hand, and when you do a piece of paper scratches against your palm. 

Surprised, you glance down at two pound notes and three shillings. 

He passes the money into your hand, and places his hat on his head. The grip of the gun he’d used on you peaks out from his inner jacket pocket that he now buttons up. 

“A promise is a promise,” John declares. “And even if you call yourself something else, a whore is a whore.” 

John shoots that mischievous grin of his right at you. As he walks past, he nips your ear and slaps your ass quaintly. 

Before you can speak, he slips out of the room like smoke. 

He closes the door this time. 

“John Shelby,” you murmur, raising a hand to your swollen mouth. You clench the fist holding the bills and coins.“John **Fucking** Shelby.”


End file.
